266 The White Goat 



An old ragged fiddler, with hair hanging grizzled 

 to his shoulders, had kept me listening late to 

 all sorts of old-fashioned tunes and dances. He 

 had fiddled his way across our continent, and 

 had taken his lifetime to do so. Here he was, 

 with silvering hair, up in the Cascade Moun- 

 tains. I spread my blankets a hundred yards 

 from his cabin, where he lived alone. He was 

 perfectly blithe-hearted and perfectly penniless. 

 I don't know his name ; I never saw him but 

 that once; I suppose he is dead; but his dis- 

 course and his fiddle gave me an evening of 

 entertainment over which I still sometimes dwell. 

 Had I found no goat, the characters that I met, 

 such as he, would have rewarded my excursion. 

 But all things came to me. After some vain 

 trips, whence I returned empty handed from 

 fairly rough camping, on Wednesday, Novem- 

 ber 2, the diary reads, " One of my particular long- 

 cherished wishes is accomplished, and I have 

 seen and killed a mountain goat." On the next 

 day a second head and hide hung in our very 

 snug camp. These first two were males, and 

 they served as a basis for the description that 

 I have attempted to draw earlier in this chapter. 

 It was while we sat, my companionable guide 



